


Professor Layton and the World Gone Mad

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [3]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Accountants, Arson, Drama, Gen, Political Agendas, Subterfuge, Tea, Vandalism, strange allies, theatrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-06 02:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14632335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: In which the course of investigating a corrupt government does not run smooth.4/4: He truly was a miserable liar. It meant everything, a hollow symbol for a hollow man, and he felt lost and traitorous and sick. But he knew-- heknew-- what he had to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished Azran Legacy; I cannot promise LMJ compatibility. Or that I won't fudge any Azran details, partly because the bulk of this was pondered long before I finished it, and partly because that last hour was slightly... "let's pile everything on at once with a shovel". And let's not even start on proper Brit-picking, historical accuracy (I'm still pretty convinced Layton is set in the year "vaguely steampunk 19whatever"), or uploading everything in a timely fashion (or indeed, in its proper order). My motivation is too sporadic for me to not just go with whatever works.

The address turned out to be a warehouse in a district of the same, unmarked, unremarkable. It was a logical place for a hideout, though he'd half expected something far more illogical. Something arcane and dramatic, like Paul himself. The man was no stranger to theatrics. 

Layton thought of his occasional detective's denouements, with a wince. He was not entirely in a place to throw stones.

He found several doors big enough to admit a lorry before he found one more his size. He rapped cautiously; then less cautiously; then reminded himself he'd thrown certain societal strictures by the wayside and turned the knob. It was open; that seemed unwise. He locked it behind him, before turning to pick his way through the maze of crates.

There were boxes and gears and mechanical detritus everywhere he looked, until he finally made his way past them. They opened, like a forest, onto a wide space, Paul's flying machine under a spotlight, boxes of tools and wrenches aligned mostly neatly in a rough circle around it. A few items of second-hand furniture and mismatched kitchen supplies gave the impression that Paul might spend a great deal of time in this place. A red light on the wall was flashing. Paul was standing at a table underneath it, his back turned toward him.

"Impressive," said Layton.

Paul turned his head. "So it was you."

"I should hope you were expecting me, if you left the door unlocked. Though I assume that's the tell-tale of an alarm system." Layton nodded at the light.

Paul pressed a button on the wall, and the light blinked off. "Come to explain how you've come to your senses in the clear light of day?"

"You're not getting off that easily, Paul." There was a small table with threadbare chairs near Paul; Layton took a seat, placing his satchel on the table. 

"Don Paolo," Paul growled. A coffee-maker behind him burbled gently, reminding Layton of his priorities.

"Would you happen to have any tea?"

"No, but I've boiling water, which I expect will suit a tea snob like you more anyway," Paul grumbled, and pulled a kettle from a box under the table. It was a bit dingy, but Layton didn't want to be any more snobbish than he must.

"My thanks," he said, and took out his tea set. 

"You seriously carry around cups and a teapot in that thing?"

"Considering the topics soon to be under discussion today," said Layton, "I thought it best to come prepared."

"Could you be any more British?" Paul snorted, and sat down with a mug of coffee. Black; Layton somehow wasn't surprised. "Well, come on, then, let's have at it."

"We need to ascertain the facts of the case," said Layton. "I expect you know more than I. Once those are established, we can determine a plan of action."

Paul frowned. "That's the problem. I can see two ways of going about this. One, track down who's paying the thugs they hired. Two, track down who's paying the shorter, uglier thug they hired. Trouble is, that information isn't exactly public-- particularly the latter."

"I assume by that you mean the Prime Minister."

"Please don't call him that. I still have to live in this country, you know."

"You could comfort yourself by breaking its laws." Layton drummed his fingers against the table. "Other than a campaign of surveillance, which would be difficult to mount--"

"I'm working on the schematics for wiretaps, but getting the access to place them isn't gonna be a day in the park."

"I suppose I should have expected as much. At any rate, it does seem promising as an initial avenue of investigation."

"I can try to intimidate the thugs," said Paul, "though to be honest, their employers can threaten them a great deal more effectively than I can. And there certainly won't be a paper trail. That other thug, however-- it's no sure thing, but it's certainly possible."

Layton frowned. "I could hardly gain access to the man's ledgers."

"I told you to stop dignifying him with fancy titles. The rat does, at least, file taxes, though I wouldn't stake my life on their accuracy."

"My dear fellow, have you ever been to the bureau of taxation? One may as well make an attempt on the crown jewels."

"If it's necessary, I bloody will."

Layton took a long look at Paul, and believed him. What was worse, if it should, by some freak of circumstance, become necessary, he wasn't sure he wouldn't come along. This was dangerous. He had to maintain his limits. Ends were not enough to justify means.

"At any rate," said Paul, "I'm sure the fink's rich enough to have accountants."

"Who doubtless guard their clients' records doggedly."

"Still," said Paul, "you might be surprised how loose lips can be. At any rate, you'll agree it's a better bet than the tax-men."

"I'd certainly concede that point." The kettle whistled; Layton got up to tend to it. "What avenue of exploration would you suggest? I doubt I've any talent for burglary."

"No, I was thinking it would make more sense to try something simpler first. Like sending you in to charm the secretary."

Layton fumbled with the teacup, just for a moment; he felt a wisp of hair escape from under his hat as he focused on keeping the near-boiling liquid safely balanced. He'd been putting off a haircut for rather too long. "Me? Why on earth would you send me?"

Paul glared at him.

"What?"

"God almighty, you can be such an idiot." Paul shook his head. "Look, just shut up and go with it. You'll at least admit you're more charming than I."

"Given that you've successfully impersonated me in front of my closest associates, I'm not sure that argument holds water."

"Just trust me on this," said Paul, "all right?"

From the look in his eyes, Layton could tell Paul knew he'd just brought up the vital question. Could he, should he, ever trust his professed arch-nemesis? When he'd invited him along on such a dubious operation?

The vital question, yes, but the answer was trivial. He'd let the man make alterations to the Laytonmobile, for heaven's sake. Paul's enmity was thoroughly unrequited. If a pathetic attempt to woo a secretary was all it took to prove it, then it was well worth it-- and best to get it done with as soon as possible.

"If you insist," said Layton. "Though I certainly hope you have a backup plan."

Paul snorted. "Layton, on this job? I'm going to try to have half a dozen at all times."

Sensible enough. "I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?"

Paul's head dropped to the table. Layton took that as a no.

-


	2. Chapter 2

-

"This is," Layton reiterated, "madness."

"The world's gone mad, Layton," said Paul. 

"That doesn't necessitate that the appropriate response is further madness," Layton pointed out.

"Get the hell into the building, Layton, or so help me God," said Paul.

Reluctantly, Layton did. He had been in enough halls of government by now that the elegant (but copy-cat) decor did not intimidate him. Dark wood, rococo trim, a sedate but simple desk as armor for a tight-bunned, angular secretary, who looked up at him through her glasses at his approach.

Layton was no good at flirting. Had Claire not been a wonderfully forward woman, he might well have remained single his entire life. This was going to be excruciating.

"Do you have an appointment?" said the secretary.

"Er, I'm afraid I don't," said Layton.

"Would you like an appointment?"

"Perhaps," said Layton.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Do you know where you are, sir?"

"Barrett and Browning, premiere accounting firm of London," said Layton. "Said to provide services to the luminaries of the city, from ambassadors to the Prime Minister himself." _Delightfully subtle, Herschel. Have you considered a career on the stage?_

"We neither confirm nor deny such rumors, sir," said the secretary. "Security is our highest value."

Layton frowned. "Security? That seems an odd priority."

"Our patrons trust us with a great deal of sensitive information," said the secretary. "Their privacy and safety is our foremost concern."

"I'd have thought accurate bookmaking would take precedence."

"Is there something you want, sir?"

Layton winced. "An appointment, yes."

"Hmm." The woman pulled out a book from her drawer. "Would you like to speak to any of our accountants in particular, sir?"

"Not unless you can tell me who the Prime Minister uses," Layton joked, feebly. A faintly irritated stare was his only response. "...No preference."

This was idiocy. The woman wasn't going to tell him anything about the Prime Minister's account, particularly not in the middle of her company's lobby. Not if their policy was so strongly in favour of privacy. And regardless of whatever personal charms he might or might not possess, this was not the sort of woman who would betray her professional duties for a handsome stranger. Why had Paul assumed she would be? _Had_ Paul assumed she would be?

Well, he might as well attempt to salvage something from this. 

"Aside from anonymity," said Layton, "what sort of methods do you use to assure client confidentiality?"

She looked at him, and sighed. "Our offices are alarmed. Our files are stored in locked cabinets in locked rooms. Would you like one of our press releases?"

"Yes, thank you."

She opened another drawer, handing him a pamphlet. "Our earliest appointment is tomorrow at two p.m. Is that all right?"

"Er. Morning would be preferable."

She flipped a page. "Tuesday at 10?"

"Yes, that would be acceptable."

"Excellent." The secretary readied a pen. "Your name?"

"Layton. Herman Layton." He was going to regret this devoutly, he knew, but lies were not his forte, particularly on short notice. 

"Tuesday at ten, then, Mr. Layton," said the secretary. "Remember to bring your bank statements, ledgers, and all payment or financial information you have, or else you'll have wasted an appointment." She handed him a card.

"Yes, er, thank you." Layton took it, nodded respectfully, and hurried back the way he came.

Paul was sitting on a bench, scowling at the newspaper. The political section; no wonder. "Well?" he demanded.

"I failed abjectly. It was quite humiliating." Layton took a seat beside him, with a sigh. "Why on earth did you think the secretary of a notoriously private high-class accounting firm would be so easily swayed?"

"I didn't know it was the most tight-lipped firm in London at the time." Paul turned a page.

"But when you found out?"

"I changed the plan."

"Without informing me?"

"The broad strokes are still the same. And you're the one who keeps whinging about what a lousy liar you are. What you don't know, you can't give away." Paul tossed the newspaper away in disgust. "You got something from her, yes?"

"A pamphlet..." Layton handed the card and leaflet over; Paul took them in a gloved hand. "I made an appointment. It was all I could think of to do."

"Naturally. When is it?"

"Tuesday at 10 o'clock."

Paul harrumphed. "Not much time, but it'll have to do. You didn't give her your real name, did you?"

"...Herman."

"Layton..." Paul shook his head. "Oh, well, at least you did that much. I was half expecting you to give her the real thing and all your information."

"Then why send me?"

"You said it yourself, you're a lousy liar." Paul sighed, getting up. "I'll have some fake documents made up for you. I'll make it as close to the truth as possible."

"Wait." Layton turned to face him, as he started to walk away. "I'm to _keep_ this appointment?"

"Isn't that what a gentleman does?" Paul called back, with a wave.

Layton massaged his forehead. If Paul wasn't going to trust him, this was going to be an even more fraught alliance than he had feared.

Well, no matter. He heard a bus turning the corner and got up to head for the nearest stop. He had a lecture this evening that had been rather too long delayed.

It was really a good thing that Dean Delmona was so lax about scheduling, Layton reflected, as he boarded the bus. He'd certainly had to take a fair number of unexpected sabbaticals over the years. Attaining tenure had been a grueling struggle, but a distracting one, and the results were still paying dividends. Even if he couldn't pay as much attention to his students as he ought.

Students... Tuesday morning was one of his office hour days, wasn't it? And he could hardly move the appointment now. And he'd only just now become available again... Clearly, he'd grown to rely far too much on Luke's scheduling abilities.

He looked at the empty window seat beside him; he'd taken the aisle out of habit. It might even have been this very bus, the last time Luke chastised him about his obligations. He wished the boy had left his day-planner behind. Perhaps he had; it seemed the sort of thoughtful thing he'd do, the minor sort of thing Layton might forget. Perhaps it was sitting on his desk right now. He'd have to check.

So many obligations. He was starting to lose track already, and Luke had hardly been gone a week. He had grown to rely on the boy, hadn't he?

Well, there was no use fighting change. He'd adapt and carry on. Luke ought to spend time with his parents while he still had them, anyway.

The university wasn't far; Layton didn't have to sit long with his melancholy thoughts before disembarking. Unfortunately, it seemed like someone was waiting for him. That girl--Rose? Rhonda? Rosetta? Yes, as the stone---was running toward him, and he did his best not to wince. During their conversations, he was never, ever certain whether he was losing his mind, or she was making inappropriate and frankly unthinkable advances toward him. Thankfully, her marks were good enough that the end of the problem was hopefully in sight.

"Professor!" she cried. "It's awful!"

"What seems to be the problem, young lady?" he asked, stepping back just a little.

"There were two men asking where your office was, Professor," she said, looking like she still wanted to cling close. He wasn't having any of that, thank you. "Obviously not students. I didn't tell them anything, but someone must have, and... just... follow me."

Alarmed, he followed her into the building, the familiar path to his office. The doorframe was broken; the lock had been forced. "I looked inside," said Rosetta, shamelessly, "and... it isn't good."

Layton took a handkerchief from his pocket, though Rosetta had probably already compromised any evidence that might have been left on the knob, and cautiously pushed the door open.

Papers were everywhere. The window was broken; a gust of air carried a few more across the room even as he watched. The cabinets were smashed, their contents no better. The desk had been reduced practically to kindling. The couch was ripped, stuffing poking out in the most unlikely of places. The table was intact, but the tea set was smashed; brown stains still dripped from the papers in the immediate vicinity.

This was practically his home, he thought. This had practically been his home, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't been expecting this. He'd thought he'd steeled himself, but this incursion...

"Dear Lord," said Dean Delmona. Layton turned his head; the Dean was peeking into the room under Layton's shoulder, as he held open the door. It didn't want to be moved much further; Layton presumed there were further piles of carnage beneath it. He'd had essays to grade. Somehow, he suspected that assignment was never going to be assessed.

"I'll call in the police," said the Dean. "Heavens. Who on earth could have done this?"

Layton didn't feel like he was entirely present; shock, he supposed. He'd have thought he'd be inured to loss by now. "Dean Delmona," he said, "I fear I will require a further leave of absence."

Rosetta sighed audibly; the Dean looked from Layton, to the carnage, and back again. "Yes, Herschel, I suppose you shall. I can handle the paperwork. Go, get yourself a spot of tea."

The Dean leaned forward to peer more closely at the damage; Layton stepped back cautiously, still holding the door for him. "And when you find the thug who did this," said the Dean, "give him one for Gressenheller, would you?"

Give him one what? Layton didn't want to ask, didn't want to know; with the world thus upended, he might be in a position to actually do it. "Thank you very much, sir," he said instead, and walked away, uncertain of his destination.

He would be back here, though. He was determined that it should be so. He would return here to his normal life. To his tidy office and patched sofa, to his students and his duties, to paperwork and tea.

As soon as all this was over.

-


	3. Chapter 3

Layton shuffled through his papers; it had to be the fifth time, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. The secretary kept looking at him, he was certain of it. He felt younger-- no, more awkward-- than he had in recent memory. 

_Herschel, Herschel, why did you have to show up early to **this** appointment?_

Pure habit, he supposed. A gentleman did not risk being late.

The papers were in order-- of course he'd been sure to keep them that way-- and, as best he could tell, they were irreproachable. They certainly appeared quite similar to his own, save for the slightly different name.

The chairs were comfortable, at least; nothing but the best for this firm's clientele. He wondered if they handled any honest money, here. Surely they must, if only by accident. He could easily imagine some other poor innocent wandering into an illustrious firm, having heard nothing but the best of it. And it hardly seemed from a business standpoint that they would turn people away. On the contrary, what could be more suspicious? 

Still-- such a reputation for secrecy surely drew the ones with secrets most of all.

"Mr. Layton?" said the secretary, and Layton almost jumped. "Mr. Cavendish will see you now."

"Thank you," said Layton, deciding not to bother correcting her over his proper title. Best not to draw too much attention to that, anyway. He rose; there was a dark-haired man with a pointed nose standing in front of the corridor on the right.

"This way, please," said the man-- Cavendish, one assumed-- allotting him only the briefest of pauses to stand before starting down the hall. Layton had to hurry to catch up. He assumed the effect was intentional.

"In here," Cavendish said, opening a heavy wooden door and ushering him through. "Do sit down."

Layton obeyed, settling his things neatly in his lap as his eyes roamed the room. The desk was an imposing thing, a giant and beastly hunk of wood, carved like a sarcophagus; the windows were sumptuously curtained in red velvet and white; dark cabinets blended into the wood-paneled walls, except for the prominent locks. The chairs were as comfortable as the ones outside. Layton was not. 

"Well, we certainly thank you for choosing our firm," said Cavendish, sitting down in his (considerably taller, of course) chair. "Might I ask what brought you to us, Mr. Layton?"

"Er, it's Professor, actually," said Layton, remembering from his false papers that it was still so. "And it's been brought to my attention that I've been terribly lax as regards my finances. A man in my position cannot afford to simply ignore his financial affairs if he wishes to retire comfortably."

"Tenure doesn't quite cover that, does it?" Cavendish's thin lips twitched in a smile Layton didn't truly credit him. "It's quite wise to keep one's affairs in order. Though it's best to start sooner... well, better today than ten years from now. You've brought your records with you, I trust?"

"Of course." Layton fumbled with the latch on his case, withdrawing the sheaf of papers Paul had given him. "I do hope I remembered everything."

"Ah. Professor Herman Layton." Cavendish settled a small gold pair of reading-glasses on his nose. "Seven years of professorship?"

"Since I attained tenure, yes," said Layton. 

"Anthropology, it says? Hmm, mostly serious students, or fools hoping for an easy grade?"

"A mixture of both, I fear," Layton answered, though he couldn't speak to the proportions. He'd never been one for names; with the frequent and violent disruptions of his academic life, the days and faces blurred together with alarming rapidity. Furthermore, he wasn't sure he'd ever been much of a judge of character regardless.

Cavendish leafed through papers, leisurely. "Only the one account?"

"Banking? I do believe so."

"And this other?"

"Er." Layton furrowed his brows, wishing he'd taken more time to study the documents more closely. "The vacation funds, you mean...?"

"Naturally, naturally." Cavendish kept scanning through papers with a practised eye. "Not saving for retirement at all?"

Layton shrugged helplessly. "I'm sure I ought," he said, "but with the pension, I suppose it never seemed as important in my younger days."

"It rarely does. But then it all starts, doesn't it, the aches and the pains..." Cavendish laughed shortly; there was little humour in it. "You'll want to amend that as soon as possible, of course."

"Naturally." Layton nodded. "I was never entirely certain of the best method to go about it, though. I fear investments are a complete enigma to me."

"It does get rather arcane," said Cavendish, "but that is why you came to me. There are some relatively simple investments we can make that should grow a reasonable nest egg to a sufficient supplemental income by the time you're ready to hang up your cap and gown. I'll need a few more details, of course."

"Certainly," said Layton.

"Any family to support?" asked Cavendish. "Wife, children, elderly or feeble relatives?"

"None," said Layton, which was both closer to and further from the truth than he was comfortable with; but he put that thought aside.

"That can always change, you know," said Cavendish, "no matter how confirmed a bachelor you happen to be. Best not to count on it entirely. Still, it helps to set some guidelines. Desired monthly income?"

"Er," said Layton, "I'm sure I could manage on two-thirds of what I make now. Perhaps less."

"Any large investments you'll need to make? Dreams of retiring to the French Riviera or a quiet seashore?"

"I hadn't anticipated buying any real estate," said Layton, "and I don't suppose I'm too picky. I haven't really thought about it as I ought."

"Quite common, quite common. Any plans to travel, or indulge in expensive hobbies?" Cavendish scribbled something down.

"Perhaps an occasional vacation? It would be good to keep up with the field to some degree. Otherwise, my main hobbies are puzzles and tea, and the price of tea is hardly ruinous as yet."

"Of course, of course." Cavendish nodded, with a smile. "One last thing."

"Yes?"

"How long do you intend to keep up this charade?"

Layton hoped the stroke of fear that shivered down his spine had somehow bypassed his face. He'd had some degree of acting practise. "I beg your pardon?"

"I asked you how long you intend to keep up this charade, Professor Layton," said Cavendish, setting the paperwork down. "Though why you thought 'Herman' was a more believable name than 'Herschel' I'll never know."

Well. That, as he was fairly certain they said, tore it. No reason to admit it, though. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Sir, this firm works with some of the most notable names in London," said Cavendish. "Security is our highest priority. Exclusivity is our privilege and our commitment. We do not simply take in all comers as customers without doing our due diligence first. Particularly not ones who are such miserable liars as yourself."

"I didn't think I was that bad," said Layton.

"I've seen worse," said Cavendish, "though not at your age. I believe the last similar performance I've seen was from my six-year-old nephew when asked if he'd any idea what happened to all the tea cakes. Please, do stop. It's getting quite uncomfortable."

"If you're so certain I'm a liar," Layton said, "and if you'd done this 'due diligence', why waste my time with this appointment in the first place? Surely you've other business to attend to."

"I do indeed," said Cavendish, "but there was always the possibility, however faint, that our secretary had simply misheard you. She's never misheard anything in her life, but I felt a duty to give you the benefit of the doubt. Did you truly think you could come in here under a false name and not be discovered? Do you think no one in this office _reads_?"

"I didn't expect you to employ many archaeologists."

"You've been in newspapers!"

"I do my best to forget that." He was not overfond of the attention, and essential details always seemed to be warped in the telling.

"How dare you, sir!"

"With some difficulty," said Layton, "though generally I've found a deep reserve of daring necessary in my lines of work."

"What's your aim?" said Cavendish, glaring at him. 

"As I've already attained tenure, generally I embark on--"

"What," Cavendish icily clarified, "is the goal of this idiotic ruse?"

"I'm afraid I have no intention of telling you that," said Layton. He still felt ashamed, a child caught in a lie, but he was starting to get angry, too, and he would use whatever weapons came to hand.

"Intentions are well-known as hell's paving-stones," said Cavendish, "and you will tell me what you're after this instant."

"No," said Layton, "I am very much afraid I won't."

"You don't know what pressures I could bring to bear," said Cavendish.

"No, I don't," said Layton, "nor can I bring myself to care. I am guilty of nothing but wasting your time. And I assure you that no legal means will convince me to tell you anything more." Layton stood. "And I think it's time I ceased compounding my offense."

"I'm sure the police would be very interested in the source of your obvious forgeries," said Cavendish, waving the file.

"I can't say I share your confidence, but you are perfectly welcome to inquire. Good day, sir."

"Get out of my office," said Cavendish.

Layton did so, fleeing as quickly as dignity would allow. Which was hardly more than a brisk walk; a shame, as he would be quite happy to put that office behind him. The benches were far enough away for comfort's sake; he chose one that kept the building's facade just out of view and let out a long, shaky breath, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he'd failed at something so utterly. Though, of course, the instant that notion darted through his head, it was followed by an eager throng of potential rivals. At its forefront the most obvious, the entire reason he was here.

He pulled down the brim of his hat as a janitor sat beside him, courteously rearranging his mop and bucket to point outward. What the devil were they to do now? 

And what, exactly, was a janitor doing with a mop out on the street?

"Well, that was spectacular," said Paul, pulling a sandwich from his pocket.

"Paul!" 

Paul unwrapped the brown paper from the bread, taking a large bite. At least it wasn't tuna, Layton thought; he wouldn't have put it past the man. "I must say I wasn't expecting you to be found out quite that quickly. Then again, I was expecting you to fold a hell of a lot sooner once you were."

"I'm terribly proud, I'm sure," said Layton. "How exactly do you know--" He decided not to ask stupid questions. "What were you doing in there?"

"Stealing the files, obviously," said Paul. "You made quite a serviceable distraction."

Layton held his tongue, putting two and two together. "You never meant that to... no, it wouldn't have got us any information if it had worked, had it? It was a mere distraction all along."

"Of course," said Paul.

"You might have told me!"

"You said you were a lousy liar," said Paul. "I preferred not to rely _solely_ on the strength of my disguise."

"Paul--"

"Though I certainly could have," said Paul, after swallowing another large bite. Layton was afraid he might choke on it-- though, at this precise moment, "fear" was probably not the correct word for the emotion the thought filled him with. "Still, the less closely they're looking, the less they're thinking, the better."

"Yes, but--"

"At any rate, we'd best not linger near the scene of the crime." Paul stood. "We can go over this tonight."

"Paul!"

"Seven o'clock!" said Paul, throwing a brief wave over his shoulder. 

Layton realized his hands were clenched into fists. He let out a long breath, stretching them back out, forcing the tension back away from his spine. Paul wanted to delay the inevitable confrontation? So be it. He could wait. He had arguments to marshal, after all.

He checked his watch. Not quite close enough to lunchtime for his taste. If he hurried, he could catch a bus home. Flora would likely be making something... as her guardian, it would be good of him to save her from that fate. 

He should also figure out what he was going to tell her.

Layton sighed as he paid his fare, taking a seat near the back. There was plenty of room; it was still too early for the lunch crowd, and the wrong direction to boot. He had the row to himself; alone with the purr of the engine and his thoughts.

She was going to figure it out. She was a clever girl, and his skills at prevarication were obviously sorely lacking. She might want to help; but that would be easily enough deflected, as he hadn't the faintest notion how she could. 

At this point, he wasn't entirely certain how _he_ could.

At any rate, she could obviously have no part of it. He would likely be at home even less than he generally was... it might be time to consider alternate living arrangements for her. Though it did seem that she could fend for herself; the poor girl had hardly had a choice, in that town.

He wondered sometimes if he'd had any business adopting a ward; he knew himself to be an indifferent caretaker, had little idea of how to mentor a young lady. He'd hardly been left with much choice. It seemed indecent to dishonour her father's wishes; he knew no better candidates for the role. Shuttling her off to finishing school like the cold relatives in a Victorian novel seemed inhumane. But was what he could provide much better? 

He couldn't be a proper father to her. She claimed not to want a replacement. But did she need one?

He looked out the window, to the grey sky behind the rows of houses. Grey, and getting greyer; it seemed fitting, somehow. No doubt because it matched his mood. He hadn't recalled rain in the forecast, but this was London.

Though that seemed more like haze than cloud.

He became conscious of a smell of smoke-- not the omnipresent petrol haze of city streets, nor the wood of a campfire, but something darker, thicker, wilder.

There was no need to fool himself. He knew well the smell of a building on fire. And though he told himself it was the usual irrational fear that every traveller on the bus surely shared, the scent, and the fear, grew with every stop.

He pressed closer to the window. The source of the smoke was visible now. A house, on his street.

He'd nearly been beaten by thugs this week. It was hardly an _irrational_ fear. 

Still a stop before his usual, but that was good enough. Someone else had pulled the cord; he was out the instant the doors opened, heading south, heading home, at a run.

The smoke grew thicker. There was no fooling himself that it was a coincidence; he could see the flames above the roof, and he prayed to any god that might exist he wasn't too late, in between cursing himself for a fool. What the _devil_ had he expected? To plot against the government from the comfort of his home? That thugs would respect the laws of sanctuary? The lives of innocents?

Flames were lapping at the windows. He skidded to a stop, hesitating, plotting his best move. Pink curtains were flapping outside the window, charred at the edges. The kitchen window. The large, open kitchen window. The huddled figure coughing below it.

"Flora!"

The heat was thick as he ran toward her, pulling her away. She didn't resist, though she didn't look up, either-- she was still coughing, might not even realize he was there. He pulled her to the front gate and realized he wasn't sure where else to go. His hands were shaking. The scent of petrol was in the air.

Flora gasped out a clear breath from against his chest. "I swear it wasn't me," she blurted out, before the coughs racked her again.

He held her tighter, shutting his eyes. "Flora, no, of course it wasn't," he said. "Of course it wasn't. I'm so glad that you're safe."

"Your notes--" she managed.

His notes. His books. His career. The life he'd built over so many years, teetering before his eyes like a house of cards, a house of cards aflame. 

The entire world seemed to tilt around him. Nothing made sense; nothing seemed real. All the rules were broken, and he wasn't sure what to do.

Sirens were sounding in the distance. He heard a faint concerned muttering across the street. "Dear god," said a man behind him; he might have jumped, except the voice was familiar. He turned; it was Richard, the letter carrier.

"I don't suppose you'll..." said Richard, weakly holding up a sheaf of letters. Layton found himself taking them, almost without thought. Why not? It was what one did.

He didn't know what else to do.

He looked at the top letter. _Sycamore Travel, Ltd._ , said the return address.

He opened it, to see a generic flyer, cheap sketch-art of an airship and a globe. Just stylish enough to superficially hide its slapdash roughness; a rush job. _North American Tour! Sweepstakes for Scintillating Seniors._

His eyes skipped over the fine print, to an archaeologist's old-fashioned scrawl at the bottom. _Verbum sap. Fugite._

He closed his eyes, a worry that hadn't even been born yet easing. If one charitably ignored his criminality, he had always had a far better brother than he deserved. And a cleverer one, to boot. This was... whatever name he should call him by... telling him his parents were safe, were protected.

And telling his idiot brother to run.

_Think, Herschel. Think._

He took a deep breath. This was reality, now, and he had to react or die.

The sirens were getting louder. Not quickly enough. The fire hall wasn't far enough that it should be taking this long. They'd done something. But he was going to take advantage of it.

"Come now, Flora," he said. "Don't push yourself, but as quickly as you can. We have to go."

-


	4. Chapter 4

-

Seven o'clock, and Layton was pushing open the door to Paul's... oh, why the devil dance around it: lair. He put down the second and third suitcases for long enough to turn the lock, then picked them back up, tottering wearily toward the lights. Nothing felt real; yet everything looked sharper, images cutting into his mind at random intervals. The clean-soldered line of a shelf. Wires bundled together with electrical tape, slithering prudently under the racks. The light fracturing oddly on Paul's frankly ridiculous hair. It looked even more outlandish from the back. He wondered if the man could be convinced to get a haircut. It wasn't a topic he relished bringing up.

Paul turned, starting to say something-- then stopped, looking Layton over. That suited him just fine. Paul had plans, and Layton wanted to derail them. 

"You were right," Layton said, as the first step of the process. It worked; the man looked utterly baffled. 

Having gained the ground, Layton was not going to risk ceding it. "I didn't understand," he continued, putting the suitcases down. The second and third he nudged under the table; the first, he was going to need. "Despite everything, I thought the old rules still applied. I might have protested. I would have been a lousy liar. I imagine I still will be. What I have gained is the comprehension that I truly need to _try_."

Paul cleared his throat. "I'm going to jump to the conclusion that your change of heart has something to do with that distinct smell of smoke."

"It does cling, doesn't it?" Layton studied his coat. He hadn't had time to wash. It had only been a few hours. It felt shorter, and rather longer. That sickening time dilation of shock. And oh, it was a mistake to think about the malleability of time.

"Is Flora all right?" Paul asked. Layton was vaguely surprised; he almost sounded concerned. Perhaps masquerading as her had given him some affinity for the girl. He thought he'd heard that might tend to happen, with actors.

"Oh, yes," he answered. "She's quite resourceful. And I've found her somewhere considerably safer to reside."

"What the hell is 'safe'--"

"A fair point, but I do promise you: even if Hawks tracks her, he'll have a difficult time doing anything about it." Layton smiled; or he thought it was probably a smile. It felt more bitter than he was used to. "One thing I know the man does still fear is his in-laws."

Paul frowned, but Layton had no intention of elaborating. Paul was likely trustworthy enough and this place probably secure, but the safer the better. Especially as Paul was right to question the very notion.

"I've contacted Luke's father as best I can," he continued, before Paul could object, "while not drawing attention to myself. However, I'm not sure there's a safer spot for Luke to be. A small American town? Busybodies to see everything, and good luck getting cooperation from the colonials. The scoundrels don't seem to have much in their arsenal save intimidation, and I doubt that will save them from that Second Amendment."

Paul was still frowning. "I trust that my parents are safe with my brother, but further inquiry would of course risk drawing attention. That should be all of... Oh, Emmy..." He laughed, just a little. "I almost hope they don't forget her; it would be an enormous drain on their manpower."

"Are you worried about that Clive brat?" said Paul, still narrow-eyed; Layton couldn't quite read his expression.

"Oh, yes... I'll send a letter tomorrow." At Paul's deepening frown, he added, "There's a man where he's residing who owes me a great deal. One who is very well connected... or poorly, depending on whether you're judging quantity or quality."

"You're wandering," said Paul. It took Layton a moment to understand, which was, of course, proof that he was correct.

"Oh, yes," said Layton. "I never was one to wake up quickly. But I am, Paul." He focused, meeting Paul's eyes. "I am awakening. And I will not be your pawn. Do not treat me as one again. When we plan, we will do it _together_."

"Will we?" said Paul.

Layton knelt down, opening the first suitcase at his feet. He drew out the box he'd gotten on his very last stop, the hardest purchase of the day. He'd gone for something brown, faintly worn, slightly taller than necessary but solidly built-- the best the second-hand store had been able to provide. 

Such a strange, such a childish attachment. He'd always known it, but felt it the only form of fidelity that remained to him to display. But it meant nothing. A symbol, and a hollow one.

He took the hat from his head, put it in the hat-box, and carefully fastened the lid.

He truly was a miserable liar. It meant everything, a hollow symbol for a hollow man, and he felt lost and traitorous and sick. But he knew-- he _knew_ \-- what he had to do.

It was the only thing he did know, in this world gone mad.

"Paul," he said, "I'm _in_."

"Jesus," said Paul, and ran a hand over his forehead. Layton had hoped the (silly, hollow, dramatic) gesture would get through to him, and it was possible, just possible, it had.

"...Though I do fear I'll need to prevail on you for a place to stay the night," he said.

Paul mumbled an impressively long string of what Layton assumed were obscenities, though he also thought he might have caught the word 'tequila'.

"Or directions to a likely place?"

"Christ. Take the bloody couch. You blithering idiot." Paul kicked his other suitcases toward the overstuffed and oil-stained blue couch. "There's a sink in the back. I'm going to get some takeout, and once I have slept off my hangover and you have slept off your shock, we'll start talking about a bloody plan. God Almighty."

"Thank you." Layton sat down on the couch. "I don't suppose I could prevail on you to fetch me something as well while you're out?"

"This is a portent of what my life is going to become and I hate every second of it. I'm getting Chinese. You're getting whatever I damn well give you and you're going to be a _gentleman_ about it."

"Well, naturally."

"Holy God." Paul stormed away, muttering to himself. The door slammed shut a few moments later, and Layton was left alone. His hand splayed over the couch (soft with age, ought to be serviceable enough for a night or two), and his eyes inevitably came to rest on the box on the table.

He still wasn't at all sure that Claire would approve. But Claire wasn't here, and he was; and so was Flora, and so was Luke. Life went on, and people changed, and he would do what he must to ensure that they got the chance.

He just hoped that he-- that she-- would still recognise, still love, the man he was at the end of it.

-


End file.
